


Play Nice, Kids

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Dean, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Unresolved Sexual Tension, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Switch Dean, Wing Kink, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reverse!Verse. This story is not about how Dean got to be an angel. It's about how cop!Cas sold naked pictures to a magazine that one time. And about how much Dean appreciates them. (Hint: it's a lot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Nice, Kids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shotgunsinlace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/gifts).



> A birthday gift for Ash. Traditional gift-giving can suck it. You get schmoopy porn.  
> Unbeta’d. All mistakes are the fault of 33 solid hours of sleep followed by four cups of a coffee brand called ‘Screaming Turtle’.  
>  **Warnings:** Some top!Dean, some bottom!Dean, some imagined thoughts of Cas/other men; some slurs, references to past sex work by Dean.

Dean was the _guy_. The guy who raised his brother, because his dad was a good-for-nothing absentee with too much haze on his breath.

Then there was hunting, and Dean was that guy, too. The guy who saved the world.

The guy who went to Hell, because he was still looking after his little brother, thirty-something years later.

There were angels. They existed, and they wanted him to do something, and they bust him out of the Pit so he could do it. He said, sure. Because what else could he say? It was _Hell_. He wanted out.

But he didn’t take kindly to being an angel condom, because that was just another kind of Hell. Maybe topside wasn’t so painful, but when he became the guy strapped to a comet, he didn’t enjoy that any better than being strapped to a torture rack.

So he flipped Heaven the bird, and told the angels to shove it up their asses. He won; the Heavenly Host turned tail and flew away, and Dean never saw them again. A few years on, Dean still had no clue why they took off. He got the impression that Sammy had something to do with it.

They left him something, though.

He became the guy with the angel wings.

The sparkles under his fingers came in useful for hunts, so he’d call that one a bonus. He could deep-fry a demon like a battered fish with no more side-effect than a slight headache after.

At least he could hide the wings. He was the regular guy outside, just your average (read: really flippin’ good) hunter. With Sammy by his side and a fuckton of power behind them both, the world looked pretty peachy.

They got themselves a bunker - something underground, leftover ancient family history. Dean loved the heck out of it, because it meant he could cook breakfast and then _put the ingredients into a cupboard_ when he was done. There was something wonderful about that.

Two months of living there went by, the brothers tracking out of town for hunts each time. They’d be gone a week, maybe six. Then they’d traipse back home and take a well-earned rest until something else cropped up - Bobby would be sure to let them know.

A trip to Missouri went a little awry, one time. The State Police raided their room with a camera, and that event got the brothers far too close to showing the world how monsters worked. They’d done their research well: red strings sat flat across the wall, linking murders to reports of the supernatural. After a good look, it wasn’t difficult for even sceptical strangers to believe that what lurked in the dark was real.

The Winchesters bounced without a look back, obviously - but they had a shadow.

Enter Castiel, the cop that wouldn’t leave them alone. Dean had no idea how the dude was even a cop, because his “people skills” were “rusty”, to say the least. He didn’t even do air quotes right.

He tailed them for going on eight weeks. Case after case, he’d show up, staring blatantly at Dean’s face, just trying to make him crack. Dean never said a word to him about monsters, but he knew that Castiel _knew_.

There was something uncanny about the man. Dean had done all the usual tests: holy water in his coffee, whispering ‘Christo’ against his ear while he was asleep. Maybe Dean whispered a few other things, too, but ‘Christo’ was the dealbreaker: zilch in the way of reaction, aside from a soft snore. The silver knife was particularly awkward (Castiel: “You stabbed me!” Dean: “Uhhhh. Sorry?”), but in the end, Dean had to conclude that Castiel was just a _guy_. A human - but a curious one at that. With a nose that went a-sniffin’.

Then a minor apocalypse happened, and Castiel - his name was ‘Cas’ now, courtesy of Dean - was no longer a cop. He was no longer anything. That is, aside from being the last surviving member of Missouri State Police Department, and homeless, with no family to speak of.

At this point, Cas figured maybe the Winchester brothers could use a third wheel.

Dean didn’t bother correcting the misused phrase, given that, honestly, that was all Castiel would be. Dean and Sam worked well alone. They always had.

Sam made a list (a literal list, on paper) of all the reasons why that was not true.

So they needed a third man, and Castiel already had his boots up on their motel room table, eating the burger Dean may or may not have bought for him without thinking.

They didn’t have any kind of ceremony about it. They never said anything in particular to Cas, never told him, “Hey, you’re one of the gang now,” but Sam suggested Cas might want to grab his stuff before they headed back to Kansas.

So they did. They got Castiel’s clothes, his books, the boxes he’d put in storage. They stole a wire trailer from the police department, hitched it to Dean’s ‘67 Impala with a rope stuck under the latch of the trunk, and drove back to their fancy batcave.

Cas got his own room, next to Sam’s. Dean’s was on the other side.

The pile of boxes ended up dumped in the library, sitting like a stocky, unavoidable rectangle in the border between the part with the meeting table and the part with the stairs. It had been there for a couple of days, and Sam had taken to simply walking around the other side of the table rather than passing the boxes directly.

Nobody wanted to deal with them. Castiel hadn’t looked at most of their contents in years, since they had been locked in storage. All his clothes were already in his room (minus the decade-old t-shirts Dean stole because they suited his shoulders), and all that remained were bubble-wrapped chachkies. Dean joked that at least one item had to be haunted, but nobody could be bothered to actually find out.

It took three days before Dean got bored with combing his wings and watching taped daytime television soaps. Even _Dr. Sexy_ felt a bit soulless after eighteen straight episodes. So, he got up and started poking around the bunker.

Sam barely glanced up from his laptop, only going so far as to offer Dean some popcorn as he passed by, before returning to watching his illegally downloaded movie.

Castiel was sitting opposite Sam at the giant meeting table, and had his nose in a book. Dean dragged his fingers over the other man’s shoulders as he walked past, just casually. Castiel’s blue-grey t-shirt wrinkled under the touch, but he didn’t move a muscle.

Dean had been trying to get him to flinch, or laugh, or smack his hand away, but for all the time they’d known each other, Castiel was about as unresponsive as the book he was reading. Yet Dean still smirked in self-satisfaction as he swiped the tips of his wing over the nape of Castiel’s neck, feeling the man’s warmth through the angelic pinions.

Maybe Castiel didn’t care either way, but Dean rather enjoyed touching him. It went beyond kicking at boots, or shoving shoulders. Dean liked using his fingers, his chin, his wings, his bare toes. Castiel noticed, since it wasn’t subtle or hard to miss, but he never said anything about it.

With a heavy sigh that he hoped would draw some attention, Dean meandered over to the boxes. Bubble wrap poked out of their open tops, as well as the edge of a picture frame, which looked far too peach-coloured to fit in with the whiskey-brown tones of the bunker.

“The hell is this,” Dean muttered, flicking a puff of bubble wrap aside so he could see the front of the picture. “Hey, Cas, I didn’t know you did landscapes.”

There was a silence filled only by the creak of wood, followed by a crick of Castiel’s spine as he leaned back in his chair. Dean glanced over at him, watching him ruffle his near-black hair. “I painted in college.”

Dean sniggered. “You ever do nudes?”

Castiel turned his blue eyes on Dean, giving him a hard stare. “No.”

“Pity,” Dean replied, eyeing the glass layer stuck over the painting. “You draw sexy trees. Really full-figured.”

Sam snorted, tugging out a headphone ear plug and looking over at Dean. “You actually gonna go through that, or just make a mess? Because I’d rather you didn’t―”

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll clear up after we unpack. C’mon, Cas, show me what this shit is.”

Castiel groaned, rolling his stiff shoulders. He looked like he hadn’t done any yoga for a while. Dean shifted his wing so he could make a better observation of how Castiel moved to stand up, unfolding himself and tipping his head side to side to click his neck. He wasn’t wearing anything on his feet, and he practically slid over to Dean, hands clasped behind his back as he stretched out his arms.

“There’s a reason I’ve left this alone,” Castiel murmured, edging up to Dean, close enough that their shoulders and bare biceps touched. “These things are so old. They practically belong to another person.”

Dean lifted up a vase, turning it side-to-side as its varnish made his hands sweat. He hummed, turning around to put it onto the tabletop. “Yeah, I don’t exactly see you doing the homemaking thing.”

“Oh, I did,” Castiel said, meeting Dean’s eye briefly, before diving in and retrieving a small white room fan without a box. “Before the police academy, I was quite adept at interior design.”

“Yeah, I bet you were,” Dean smirked, running the back of his hand down Castiel’s forearm accidentally-on-purpose as they both reached for the same lampshade. “Bet you fung-swayed the whole place up everywhere you went.”

“Feng-shui,” Castiel corrected.

“Heh, whatever.” Dean set a stack of cloth-bound books on the meeting table, smiling as Sam abandoned his movie to examine the collection.

“Where are we going to put these things?” Castiel peered intently at a onyx statue of a cow, one horn long-ago snapped off.

Dean huffed, plucking the figure from Castiel’s hands and putting it on top of the nearest bookshelf. “There,” he said. “Looks right at home.”

They both stared at the cow; it did look quite happy beside the Japanese sword stand.

“This is just clutter,” Castiel said, finally taking his eyes off the cow and returning his focus to the box. “None of these things mean anything to me.”

“Well, Daisy there represents...” Dean flicked his fingers at the cow, suddenly out of ideas. He’d had an essay’s worth of thought upon seeing her standing there, but now he got to saying his thoughts out loud, they was all gone.

“Finding a home,” Castiel suggested.

“Sure.” Dean managed a weak smile. That summed it up, just about.

Castiel shoved Dean’s wing off his chest as he reached for another layer of bubble wrap. Dean flexed his feathers, playfully brushing Castiel’s ass. Castiel raised his eyebrows, but didn’t turn.

“Ah, these,” Castiel said, picking up a sealed wooden crate about the size of a man’s head. “These are special. Sam―” Sam looked up from the cloth-bound books, making a questioning noise.

Castiel put the crate into Sam’s hands. “Science equipment. There’s a Bunsen burner in there, a few glass vials.” Castiel put his now-dusty hands on his hips, watching Sam wriggle the top of the crate off.

“Nice,” Sam grinned, lifting up a metal tube with a heavy base. “Haven’t seen one of these since high school.”

Dean huffed, throwing bunched-up bubble wrap at Castiel’s turned back. “And why don’t I get the science stuff, huh? I can do geeky shit.”

Castiel walked back to Dean’s side with a low smirk on his lips. “But would you ever? Would you spend the time on it, I mean.”

Dean pulled a face. “Yeah!”

Castiel scoffed and grasped Dean’s feathers to shift them out of his face again. Dean flapped him in the side, and Castiel took that as his cue to ignore Dean. It was like he knew that if he started egging Dean on, Dean would just touch him more.

Dean wondered if that meant Castiel didn’t want to be touched. But then... there were times like these, where Castiel would shove him away, ignore him, but then as soon as Dean got anywhere near close, Castiel would lean into his space, close enough that Dean’s heart was pressed to Castiel’s back.

Dean licked his lips. He was able to only use his right arm, as the other one was pressed against Castiel’s lower back, wings shrouding them both. He prodded at a crumpled bit of bubble wrap, but was too distracted by Castiel’s body heat to actually pick anything up.

Castiel leaned forward, one foot slipping off the floor so he could lean deeper inside the box. He grunted, and his warm ass touched Dean’s hand for a moment before he stood up, a stack of faded printed paper in his arms.

Castiel backed up, and Dean curled his wing around Castiel to stop him getting away. “What’ve you got?”

Castiel allowed himself to be guided by the wings until he was face-to-face with Dean, locked between the warm tickly shadows of Dean’s feathery appendages. Dean looked down, and tilted his head to see the title of the magazine he saw on top.

“Porn?” Dean spluttered, very surprised.

Castiel used Dean’s momentary shock to escape the block of his wings, and set the stack of magazines on the table.

“No, no porn on the table,” Sam complained, waggling a forbidding finger.

“This isn’t even mine.” Castiel spoke so easily that Dean was disappointed: he could only be telling the truth. “It belonged to my roommate from college.”

“And where’s _your_ spank bank?” Dean demanded, putting his hands on the back of a chair as he stood looking down at the table. Castiel spread out the magazines, evidently just as curious as Dean had been a moment ago.

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe it all got thrown out.”

“I mean your recent porn, not your college porn,” Dean said.

Castiel threw Dean a scathing look over his shoulder. “The internet exists nowadays, Dean.”

Dean folded his arms, pretending his feathers weren’t ruffled by that.

The magazines splayed like cards on the table, all of them at least fifteen years old, every cover featuring a photo of a woman, varying in skin tone, all with sizable bosoms. Castiel seemed to find them unremarkable, turning away and going back to the boxes.

Dean lingered, stepped closer and sweeping a tentative finger to separate the magazines out. They all had different titles, each one in awful gaudy late-80’s or early-90’s style, but generally, Dean could appreciate what Castiel’s roommate had appreciated.

“Are you going to need some time alone, Dean?” Castiel asked, as he returned to the table and dumped another layer of magazines. They spread flat, the women’s badly airbrushed skin glowing under the lights of the library.

Dean wasn’t really that intrigued. If it had been Castiel’s personal collection, he’d be singing a different song. He wanted to know what got Castiel off, for the simple reason that he wanted to know how to make Castiel snap. What would make him laugh, what would make him gasp, or blush, or turn away in shame? So far, the closest Dean could get was to make Castiel glare at him or refuse to share his food.

“Debatable,” Dean muttered at Castiel’s retreating back. “How much alone time would you give me? There’s about enough fuel to last a year here.”

“I doubt you could keep it up that long,” Castiel said, dryly.

Dean broke into a grin, but he turned his face away so Castiel didn’t see. Sam was grinning too, but as he met Dean’s eyes from across the table, they both cleared their throats and looked in different directions. Sam took a book and sat back down at his seat, shutting his laptop.

Yet another splurge of pornography littered the table, and while Dean considered that he’d have to stack it up again soon, something caught his eye.

“Hey, was your roommate into guys?” Dean beamed as he sank his hand between the dry paper and removed the single glossy cover from amidst them all.

Castiel peered over Dean’s shoulder as he dumped another set. He made a breathy noise, as if he was about to speak, but then he seemed to freeze solid.

Dean dragged his eyes off the pasty-white face of the model on the front cover, his mind still lingering on the parted lips and hooded eyes as he looked at Castiel. It was a stark shock to see Castiel’s set jaw beside him, unlike the soft shapes Dean had ludicrously been expecting.

“I... don’t think that’s his,” Castiel said, unsurely, his eyes locked to the cover.

Dean shifted his thumb on the gloss, glancing down and seeing where his skin’s natural oil had left a mark.

“Is...” Dean couldn’t complete his sentence before swallowing. The thought that Castiel might like guys had crossed his mind a good few times, but given how transfixed Castiel had gotten upon seeing this... it was starting to become a real possibility. “Is this yours?”

Castiel’s lips flattened into a line as he lifted a hand and pried the magazine out of Dean’s hand. Dean’s fingers snapped onto nothing, and he put his hand against the table, tapping out a nervous rhythm.

Castiel stared at the cover for a moment, then faced Dean and lifted the magazine up as he flicked through it. Dean couldn’t see the inside pages this way, and he frowned at how secretive Castiel was being about it. Dean didn’t have a reason to complain, though. He’d be about the same in this situation, whatever this situation actually _was_.

Dean’s curiosity bubbled in him, but he maintained a certain level of respect for the other man’s privacy. He wasn’t about to snatch the pages away from Cas, no matter how badly he wanted to.

Castiel finally paused on a single page, lowering the magazine with his eyes still on it. He tilted his head to one side, then the other. Then he closed the magazine, gaze drifting into the middle-distance.

“What is it?” Dean prompted.

“Nothing,” Castiel said, uncaring. He turned back to the boxes, closed magazine still in hand.

Dean followed at his heel, trying to subdue the excited flap his wings gave. “So, is it yours?”

“No.”

Dean fiddled with a box flap as he stood beside Castiel. “So it’s your roommate’s?”

“No.”

Castiel put the magazine down beside the onyx cow, then heaved out yet another serving of porn and went to put it on the table. While his back was turned, Dean reached for the glossy one. He found his hand slapped before he could even touch it. Castiel gave him a determined stare.

Ah, so there it was. He’d found the sore spot.

Now, to poke it with a stick.

“Why can’t I see it?” Dean asked.

Castiel just shook his head and flipped the first empty cardboard box over onto its side, revealing the second one, which was still taped shut.

“You gonna take it up to your room?”

“Dean, either help me or sit down,” Castiel snapped. “You’re in my way.”

Dean snorted, flicking open his pocket knife and slicing the taped box open. “Is it―”

“It’s not of import,” Castiel said, wrenching a handful of bubble wrap against Dean’s chest.

Dean tried again and again, but he got nothing else out of him. Castiel wouldn’t let him get within an inch of the magazine. The moment they had everything laid out on the meeting table, Dean turned around and saw Castiel marching over to the spiral staircase, magazine in hand.

“Where’re you going?!” Dean bellowed, but Castiel just gave him the finger. “C’mon, man, we still gotta sort out this crap!”

Castiel shut the door to his bedroom.

Dean gaped, fingers tugging at his wings in some sort of self-comforting gesture.

“Ha,” Sam said.

Dean turned to see him looking far too smug. “ _What_ , asshat?”

Sam grinned harder. “Guess he doesn’t like when you stick your nose in his business.”

“Yeah, but now I have all _this_ business to stick my nose into,” Dean complained, pointing a thumb at the hundred-odd pornographic magazines and assorted household decorations that remained unsorted.

“Maybe he might want some of it in his room.” Sam shrugged. “His shelves are kind of bare.”

Dean blanched. “When did he let you into his room?”

Sam’s smirk rose slowly, but when it reached its peak, it did shit-all for Dean’s twisted mood. “I helped him put _up_ the shelves.”

“Handyman Sam, huh?” Dean sneered at his brother, then flapped his wings and turned heel. He sighed. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Hey - _hey!_ ”

Sam’s shout went unanswered, as Dean sauntered out of the room to get himself a snack.

The table was clear again by the end of the day, the boxes flattened, the bubble wrap half popped by Dean’s bored hands. The knickknacks got carted into Castiel’s room, and Dean assumed they would be well taken care of.

But he still had no idea what was so special about the magazine Castiel wanted to keep secret.

Over the next few days, Dean built up an ongoing train of thought, a list of theories.

The first one, he called his Occam’s razor. The most obvious explanation was that Cas liked dudes and didn’t want Dean ogling his porn.

The second was a little further out; perhaps Castiel had something very personal hidden in there. Like an autograph, or a love letter. Dean had no idea what could possibly be classified as well-hidden between pages of naked men, but it counted as a theory, right?

The third theory was that Castiel knew somebody who featured in that magazine. A friend, or a cousin maybe. As Dean understood it, Castiel had no immediate family, but he’d mentioned having distant relations. There had to be _something_...

Dean eyed Castiel over the table at meal times, savouring his home-made burger and wondering what sly questions he could ask to get Castiel to spill his secrets.

He once got as far as, “”Hey, Cas, you know that―” before Castiel shot him a very blunt look that clearly said he wasn’t saying anything on the matter.

Only on a single occasion did Dean attempt to enter Castiel’s room in the hope he might satisfy his burning curiosity. But he opened the door, and Castiel looked up from his place in the middle of his circular bed, surrounded by six different lamps and a decommissioned ceiling fan. Since Dean had no hope of completing his mission, he grinned awkwardly and complimented Castiel on his interior decorating skills.

Castiel thanked Dean for his kind words, and Dean backed out onto the landing, wondering if Castiel even knew he was being sarcastic.

The third day rolled around since they unpacked, and Dean had lost count of the amount of times he’d combed down his feathers. They got ruffled when they were kept invisible, but when he was in the bunker, he let them hang loose, and if he was completely honest, he loved preening himself. But yes, he had become quite tired of how repetitive it was.

Every time his thoughts squirmed their way back to that magazine, he knew he was obsessing over something trivial. It should have been nothing, but maybe it was his angel senses telling him there was something more to it.

And besides that, he couldn’t stop thinking about the expression of the man on the cover. After seeing it the first time, Dean had imagined that expression painted on the features of Castiel’s face, over and over again. Dean wanted to see _him_ undone like that.

He was still thinking about it that evening. His eyes were nearly unfocused as he prepared the three of them a sandwich each, totally lost in fantasy.

Castiel stepped into the kitchen; Dean knew him by the sound of his bare feet on the tiles.

“Salami, cheese, or both?” Dean asked, not turning around.

“Whatever you’re having,” Castiel said.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, seeing Castiel’s form hovering unsurely beside the toaster. “What’s up?”

Castiel sighed. “You keep asking me about that magazine.”

Dean smirked, sinking his knife down through thick bread. “And?”

“And I’d prefer if you stopped.”

Dean set down the knife and turned around, looking questioningly at Castiel. “I’ll stop if you tell me why.”

“I’ll tell you why if you promise to stop.”

Dean’s eyes darted to the half-open door, then back to Castiel’s face, seeing how thick his facial hair had gotten over the past few days. “If I promise, then you tell me something really interesting, I’m gonna regret this.”

Castiel’s smile came up wicked. “True.”

Dean snorted, folded his arms, then nodded. “Fine. Fine, tell me. And I promise to stop poking.”

Castiel suddenly looked ashamed, eyes turned down to Dean’s slippers and bare legs.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh?”

Castiel shook his head. “I thought you would...” He cleared his throat. “Never mind.”

“Tell me?” Dean prompted. He really wanted to know, and his wings were fidgeting at his sides in anticipation.

Castiel pulled his lips into a flat line, and he almost made eye contact with Dean before gulping and looking away again. “When I was... much, much younger...”

Dean leaned forward, one hand sliding down to hold his left wing, to stop it flapping. He wished his angel bits wouldn’t move so much when he felt things, but they did. Excitement, anger, arousal. All he could do to control them was grip them hard, gritting his teeth.

Castiel puffed out a breath and continued, “I was in dire need of―”

Dean knew he was interrupting his absorbance of Castiel’s words, but he had to gasp silently and clutch his wing feathers tight, his knuckles straining as he fought against them. Castiel was still talking - something about the police academy, about wages, but all Dean noticed was the sway of his own wings.

He fought and fought them, eyes set on his white knuckles, unable to even hear Castiel past the buzz of rustling electric feathers. The pressure built in his head and under his hands, and eventually Castiel just sounded like a bug in a tin can, his words lost from Dean’s current thoughts.

Dean gave up, vanishing the wings into the ether. They’d rumple again, but it was better than letting Castiel see how wild he’d gotten. If he’d lost control and spread his wings out completely, Dean figured that had to be the angelic equivalent of a boner, and he couldn’t let Castiel see that. He’d been thinking about it too much recently, and just the thought of Cas-plus-porn got him going.

Castiel looked up, his sentence trailing off. He looked confused. “Where did your wings go?”

Dean shrugged, glancing about him like he’d only just noticed. “Taking a break, I guess.”

Castiel seemed unconvinced, and still very on edge.

Dean took a guess at whatever Castiel had been about to say and stepped forward, offering an easy smile. “Look, I’m not one to judge. Sometimes we enjoy stuff that’s not our usual.” Dean shrugged, friendly. “We’re all a little gay when it comes down to it, am I right?”

Castiel’s frown deepened. “Excuse me?”

Dean licked his lips. “Your rag. Or your...” Dean air-quoted, “‘roommate’s’. It’s not that weird. Don’t freak out about it, Cas, it’s not like I’m not the same.”

Castiel gaped, then shook his head, still frowning. “I don’t follow.”

Dean twitched a small smile. “Aah, it’s nothin’. Forget I said anything.” He turned back to the kitchen counter, cutting the last sandwich and putting them onto plates. “Here, come take one of these.”

Castiel’s face remained about as perplexed as it ever was, as he carried Sam his sandwich, then took his own from Dean as they sat together at the meeting table.

Dean had a vague feeling like he’d missed something, but he didn’t press it. It was like a dream he’d forgotten - when his wings played up, they tended to mess with his head.

Castiel looked at Dean strangely for a few hours after that. Dean wondered if he’d said the wrong thing - after all, maybe it really _was_ the roommate’s porn stash, and Cas _wasn’t_ the tiniest bit into guys. The more he thought about it, the more Dean came to realise his wings had distracted him far away from whatever Castiel had admitted.

But it became pretty damn clear that night.

Dean didn’t know what prompted it - he was happy to call it a spontaneous decision on Castiel’s part, rather than an outright come-on (which was purely because Dean found that easier to deal with when his mind was so incredibly occupied).

He opened his bedroom door, all set to sleep for the night, and found that single magazine sitting flat on the foot of his bed. He frowned at it, closing his door slowly.

Padding over, he eyed the black rectangle: there was a post-it stuck to its cover, hiding the model’s mouth from Dean.

_DO NOT talk about this. This never happened._

Well, thought Dean, that was pretty clear. He flipped the cover open, all thoughts of sleep suspended until his questions were answered.

So this was what Cas got off to, huh? Awesome. Pretty-boys, it looked like. Nice lips, nice physiques. Runners, swimmers... chess-players.

Dean smirked, and plonked himself on his bed, crossing his legs and setting his lower back against the headboard. He felt a little pressure in his boxers, but he could ignore that for now - he just wanted to soak this up, feast his eyes. He could appreciate the hell out of this, and get off later.

From what he gathered from the images, not reading any of the blocky text, this magazine was some kind of... photos-for-cash thing. The images were semi-professional, some full-page spreads apparently shot in a studio, but others looked like home snapshots.

Dean squeezed his thighs together, absent-mindedly putting the heel of one hand over the bulge.

He flipped the pages slowly, not really bothering to take in the sights of one man before switching to the next. None of them were especially enticing to him, but as a whole, Dean liked the idea of _Cas_ getting off to this.

Everything was mid-eighties style. Cas would have been - hmm, twenty years old? Yeah, Dean could imagine that. Fat lips, high cheekbones, huge blue eyes... dark, sweet lashes that curved perfect lines against his face every time he paused to savour the images.

His voice would still be youthful, more rounded than the gritty undertone he used now. He’d smile, still innocent, his mind free of the adult horrors he’d seen since. He’d look at these pretty men and he’d gasp under his breath, eyelashes fluttering, the barest hint of white teeth nibbling a line against his full lips.

Dean’s mouth drew into a pleased smile, eyes hooded. He wasn’t really looking at the magazine, but he could feel a damp patch in his underwear, and could see the bump in the magazine where his erection was lifting it. The hand on his crotch squeezed a little, thumb flattening against his balls. His thickness was sitting cupped between the top of his thigh and his hipbone, and as he stroked it side-to-side, he imagined Cas doing the same.

Dean growled under his breath.

Cas getting off to guys. Cocks. He liked cocks. Cute little twink, mouth open, pink tongue ready for a taste.

It didn’t seem to matter if Dean thought about _himself_ and Cas. Just Cas... with people. Girls, boys, what the fuck ever. In his mind’s eye, Dean watched Castiel taken from behind, his hands going weak as he sucked in a tiny, timid breath. His first time.

Dean lost control of his breath, his head lolling to his shoulder as he jammed his hand into his boxers, holding tight to his fat, leaking cock, its heat delicious and sticky under his thumb. He squashed it with his fist, a furious, angry kind of pleasure filling him. He tugged, crying out breathlessly to the dipping lights above him.

Sparks flushed under his skin, just like using magic. He shoved his boxers down, spread his legs out. The magazine flopped to the mattress, but Dean didn’t even care. He’d come on it. He’d fucking jizz on it until the gloss stained, and Cas would know what he’d been thinking about.

Tight, tight tight tight. Oh god in Heaven, Cas’ little hole would be tight as _fuck_.

It wasn’t like Dean hadn’t thought about this before. But he’d never been so unrestrained about it. Cas _gave_ him this magazine. He _wanted_ Dean to know. That he liked men. He liked boys. Pretty, pretty boys, with long lashes and red lips, shining eyes and freckles.

Cas probably thought about Dean when he did this. Hand on himself, smudging wet pre-come against his cock, fingernail easing under his foreskin.

Dean bucked into his slick grip, his other free hand falling flat to the bedspread, holding his weight as he fucked upward, squeezing tight like Cas’ little asshole. Twenty-year old cop, just starting out.

Needed money, huh? Maybe he did what Dean had to do. Sell himself. Maybe not like Dean did, not in the streets, but―

Holy shit.

Dean let go of his cock, sitting back down on his pillow and wiping his wet hand on his bathrobe. He throbbed, hot and still hard as a fucking rock. He grabbed the magazine, got to the page he’d been at before. He flipped the pages. Flip, flip... The gloss caught on his sticky hand, making it easier for him to turn the thick paper.

Black boys, latino boys, tanned boys. Cocks, nipples, open mouths and sneaky little smiles. Dean felt himself dribbling down his own length, panting rough breaths as his thighs shook. The pressure between his legs was like a red-hot ember in a tissue paper - not quite alight, just waiting for a gust of wind...

There. Dean flipped once more, and the pages sank apart. He tossed the magazine to the bed and leaned back, both hands going to touch this time.

Twenty-year-old Castiel lay there between Dean’s legs, his back arched against black bedsheets, his head on a pillow, his sore mouth open, eyes dark - _so_ dark. Lying in candlelight, maybe. His nipples were peaked and wrinkled, a single freckle above the right one. His fingernails were cropped round, one nipple set between a finger and thumb, his other fingers spread upward like he was holding a fancy teacup.

His other hand was beside the front of the photo. Dean took his own cock just like Cas was doing, one thumb in his slit, rubbing softly, the pads of his other fingers pressing dips into the flesh of his cock.

Dean bared his teeth and growled. Fuck, he could bite something right now. Heat was roaring under his skin, he was sweating, he was burning up from the inside. He felt beautiful - purely the doing of Cas, the sexy cop with a history of being hot.

Cas was looking straight at the camera, and Dean didn’t even have to try in order to imagine him spread out like that in front of him. On Dean’s bed. Bathed in candlelight.

They could touch each other, with Cas lying that way. Or watch each other touch themselves. Dean would watch Cas pinch that pokey nipple, listening to that dulcet mewl as Castiel whispered filth into the heavy air.

Dean shoved the magazine further down the bed, intending to get off to this so intensely that Cas would see it painted on his face the following morning. He wanted Cas to know, _I imagined myself fucking you. Fucking your tight ass, fingering your mouth, licking the dark shadows between your legs. Imagined you fucked down into my mattress, fucked mute. By me. I fucked you._

Dean’s bathrobe got tossed to the floor, and he didn’t bother taking his boxers off. He knelt up, eyes on the spread pages of the magazine. Gaze locked to Cas. Cas could watch him touch himself. He’d like that. He liked Dean, so he could enjoy this.

Dean fisted his dick, wincing at how tightly he dragged the cockhead as he swept downward, tip to base, then base to tip. The twist in his stroke followed his natural curve, a low, guttural yowl escaping his throat as he began to buck into his hand.

Cas could be here, spread out, face down, ass in the air for Dean to take him. Twenty years old, maybe thirty-five, but the sounds he’d make would be the same. Helpless, all gone on Dean. He’d be shaking, his pinked member so hard it was against his stomach, even as Dean fucked him down.

Down, down, down. Hands on his hip bones, on his fleshy ass, pinching his nipples tight. Maybe on his throat, stroking gently. Make him swallow when there wasn’t even anything to swallow.

Tugging his hair.

Dean wailed, lost in the carnal rage of it all, and his wings came out along with a pulse of pre-come, wetness dripping onto his bedspread as feathers touched the edges of his bedroom walls. A gun knocked loose, clattering like broken thunder down onto the floor.

Pinions swept wide, air changing pressure in bursts as Dean began to bat his wings, hurling them like he was flying. His knees spread wider on the bed, hand firm around his cock. With each beat of his wings, he drove himself into his fist. Fucked his hand. Deep, tight.

His head fell back on his shoulders as he cried out, vision lost momentarily as his gaze caught the lights and they blinded him. He closed his eyes, mouth going slack as he tried to breathe manually, all functions outside of _Cas, cock, fuck_ long since dissipated.

Cas wanted him to do this. Wanted him to feel like this. Why else would he let Dean see?

Christ, that drove Dean _wild_.

Ever since they’d met, Dean had tried not to think about how badly he wanted him. Those sparkly blue eyes, that knowing, careful smile - they got him furious. Castiel was a fucking mystery, and Dean loved it. He knew all there was to know about the cop’s history; Sam and Charlie had been thorough in their backchecks. But Dean wanted to know what was behind those eyes.

Something playful lurked there. Like in this photo, the confident way he touched himself. He let himself get undone for the photo, and Dean wanted to see that wall crumble for real.

Cas didn’t take the shot himself - both hands were busy. Fingers light, skilled. Hands rough and wanting.

Maybe a timer. Maybe another person.

Dean liked the thought of a timer better. He wanted to be the only one seeing this. He could be possessive now - who else still had a copy of this photo? It was so old, it could just be him. He was the only person seeing this.

Cas showed him. Gave it to him. Like a gift.

_Take this. Look at this. Let it do something for you._

With his wings flapping like a hurricane at his sides, breaking the air with fast swoops, Dean wondered what Castiel was thinking when he took this. Maybe he was thinking about a boy. A boy like Dean? Yeah. When Dean was younger, about twenty. He had the same slim-cut hips, the same wide shoulders. Freckles.

Cas would kiss those freckles. Even now, he could just curl up behind Dean and put his lips on Dean’s shoulders. Tongue him down. Run a heated line down Dean’s spine, dipping into the bronze shadows under his shoulders.

Dean would kiss him back. There were no freckles on Cas but the one over his nipple, and Dean would kiss it. Freckles were angel kisses, right? He could make it into a real angel kiss.

He’d kiss his nipple. Put his tongue on it, hot. He’d feel its crinkled ridges, the tiny bump in the middle. He’d feel Cas’ fingers spread in his hair, curling up tight, nails scraping at his scalp as he pulled.

Their eyes could lock, then. Dean would smile. What didn’t he have to smile about? Cas lying back for him, making tender sounds for him.

Dean groaned at the thought, mouth open wide, teeth showing as he grunted to the ceiling, fuck-fuck-fucking his hand. Both hands now, smearing pre-come over his palms as he set his cock evenly between his two fists, making a tunnel.

Dean could kiss downward, his tongue tasting Castiel’s baby-soft skin, tasting his natural tan, feeling firm muscle under his teeth as he nibbled. Devour him like the treat he was.

 _Baby, baby, baby._ Fuck.

Dean just wanted to... Jesus, he wanted to do everything. Wanted to destroy that other man. In every way possible. Make him scream, from pain, from lust, from love. Dean wanted to suck him dry, swallow him whole, spit him back out and make him take it. Get him in his lap, clutch him tight and whisper easy words. Harder words, too. Softer ones, words Dean wouldn’t say to anyone else.

Dean already told Castiel some things. Castiel was asleep, but he maybe he’d heard them. Dean had told Cas what he felt. About him, _for_ him. It wasn’t good, what he felt - but then again, nobody had come to smite him yet. Dean let himself feel it. It was the human part of him, the bit of Dean Winchester that still kept him sane and real. It made him feel dirty sometimes, but it made him feel good other times.

Like now.

He hissed into the heated air, sank his hands between his thighs, one finger sliding immediately to his hole, sweat and pre-come letting him push the tiniest bit inside himself. His head soared with dizziness at the feeling, just the smallest touch making his skin burst with itches, desperate itches.

Cas could fuck him, too. That was how it worked. They could lock themselves into a bedroom and fuck it out, play with each other. See each other naked, taste the other.

Lick the forbidden fruit, eat it out. Bite.

Dean fell backwards onto his bed, the band of his boxers cutting against his muscled thighs. Sick of their restraint, he lifted his legs over his head, tugged his underwear off, and threw it uncaringly across the room.

He spread his legs like a whore, smiling at how it felt. Naked, thinking the word _slut_ , over and over. Castiel’s little slut.

He could take it like a fucking man, Dean could. If Cas could take him, he’d take it, too. Both of them could just lie back and feel the other man bottoming out inside, fat and wholesome, stretching the other’s tiny asshole.

Baby. Call him baby. _Mine_.

Dean gasped slowly and weakly as he fingered himself, too dry to push in, but too surrounded by his thoughts to reach for lube. He could be like Cas in the picture. He hoped he looked like that, eyes half-closed, consumed by the sin of his thoughts, his lips wet and shining.

Cas would look down on him like he was angry, wanted to fuck Dean for being such a bad boy.

Dean lost it for a moment at that fantasy. He whimpered like an animal, body limp as he pumped into a fist, just quick. He liked it. He liked the thought of Cas punishing him. Dean had been naughty. Always naughty. Cas could spank him for it.

Dean growled, biting his bedspread as he turned his face to the side. Cotton dragged between his teeth, and he shook his head like a riled-up dog, tugging the other half of the chew toy. Cas would play that. He would let Dean take control, but then he’d turn around and dominate the fuck out of the freckled angel. The power of Heaven had nothing when it came to Dean’s dirty human desires, not when they included Cas _inside_ him. Punish him with pleasure, that sounded good.

Okay... okay...

Dean gasped, trying his best to wind down. He wanted that, yeah. But he had nothing to emanate that. No toys, nothing hard and phallic and fun. Fingers wouldn’t be right. He didn’t want to stretch first, he wanted the burn.

He sometimes did it in the shower, just put a few fingers inside. He found it exciting. He liked twisting them. Finding his prostate was like striking gold, and he’d gotten better at it recently. He enjoyed watching his come spray the shower wall. Sometimes he’d clean it up, other times he’d leave it there, too exhausted to bother. Playing with his hole _got_ him. Tired him out. He loved it.

But he had nothing right now. He wanted a goddamn _cock_.

His wings ruffled as he shifted on the bed. He sighed, biting down on his lip as he rolled over, reaching for the nightstand to fetch his lube. One wing dragged up, so he let it trail on his cock. Tickles, roughness. He mouthed out a soft, unwilling noise, and found that once it was out, it was a satisfying noise to make. He felt his cock twitch, and a burst of heat spewed over the feathers as he turned to look at himself.

The wings were shimmering with dark lightning, humungous and partially absent - he couldn’t focus his eyes on them, it was like staring into endless space. Sometimes he saw bird feathers, brown, gold, black - other times they were like this, shivers coursing in his body and making the wings vibrate.

He couldn’t _think_ like this. Everything went far further than masturbation, or thoughts of a naked Castiel as he did so. When his wings were out and excited, and he let himself brush feathers on his cock, it was like his pleasure entered another dimension. Time stopped, just about. He could have passed out, a year could have gone by. He could have dreamt it all.

It was crazy good, and he made a useless sound as he returned to his back with the lube in hand, and watched himself fuck upward into his wing. His body wasn’t really _there_ ; his mind became a clusterfuck of sensation, half-removed, half of him feeling everything so fucking _much_ that he could scream from the pleasure.

Maybe he did. Maybe he whined and lay back, lubed up a finger and sank it inside him, no hesitation. He got himself wet inside until he could hear the squelch of fingers, and he could feel his ass against the heel of his hand. All his fingers entered at once. His face tensed on one side, the urge to _bite_ rising in him again. Not out of pain, just out of want. He wanted his teeth in something, while something was inside _him_.

But he pulled his hand out, letting his angel wings relax off the sides of the bed. Long pinions trailed on the carpet, the buzzing in them electrifying the floor, spiraling impossible colours up the walls that Dean was pretty sure only he could see. Sex with wings was like an acid trip. If he was doing this with Cas, he wanted hands in those feathers. He’d see that impossible colour drenching Castiel’s pupils until they were saturated like demon eyes, and he was crying out in fear of the endlessness he saw in Dean. Dean squirmed with delight - there was something satisfying about holding the power to make Castiel afraid.

To get him to feel _anything_ , to have him show it on his face... that had to be a miracle.

Dean purred as he lay back, letting everything simmer down. He eased up, breathing slowly. Let calm overtake.

Soft, easy glides of his wings, feathers gracing the floor. Dark shadows built a cocoon around Dean, and he let them soothe him. He could do this relaxed, or he could do this riled up, but he didn’t want it to hurt. So he picked relaxation. Go slow.

It had to be against the rules to use his power like this, but he liked the idea too much. So he curled his hand around an invisible cock, just wide enough to match Castiel’s, in his picture.

The picture in question was lying discarded at Dean’s ankle, its page wrinkling beside his toes. His thoughts were still lingering around it, but his eyes had moved on, his body ready for something new...

In his hand appeared a thick, brilliant pink jelly-like substance, its grip moulded to his hand. Like a lightsaber, it extended: four, five, six inches. It formed into translucent plastic, getting firmer and harder. A Dean Winchester-created dildo. He smirked, pleased at the round cockhead that was perfectly formed at its tip, its length textured with veins, so close to how Castiel’s cock must look in reality.

Dean lay back, set a hand under his head, scrunching his hair as he closed his eyes and spread his legs.

He nudged the plastic cockhead against his hole, and his breath caught at the bump; he felt the muscle willingly opening around the tip of his toy, hungry.

He smiled to himself, bringing down a tiny frown in concentration, as he... _ah!_ He plunged the dildo straight in, mouth sliding open, back arching as it filled him up in one deep slide.

Hard. Hard and cold and solid. He could feel the cockhead buried in him, squeezed against his walls. The stretch of his hole was burning, but he grunted through the lingering discomfort, the fingers of one hand fisted in his pillowcase. His eyes screwed up tight, just letting himself adjust.

Ten seconds, relaxing.

And then he pumped his hand, fingers gripping the handle of the dildo like a knife, stabbing gently, slowly. Letting it sink in.

He surrounded it. It was Cas; he could feel Cas in him.

“Oh... yeah,” Dean muttered, the words coming out broken, his vocal chords strained.

His wings flapped dully beside his shoulders, feathers fritzing, light flickering invisibly across their surface. This wasn’t pleasure, this was destruction. Of himself. Too good. _Cas_.

He whimpered, his body as helpless as he’d imagined Castiel being, not too long ago.

Cas could fuck him, for real. Without a toy, without Dean’s wrist having to curve to sink himself onto something fake. There could be flesh in him. Thick, wet, hot - sliding deep until hip bones rubbed against Dean’s ass. _Meat_.

Dean put his feet flat on the bed and lifted his hips, ass off the mattress, dildo in him as he swapped hands, this time trying to push so deep that the handle almost slipped inside.

He growled, teeth bared at the stretch of it. The curve of his own body fought him, but he angled the toy against it, slid it in again. He could hear the slippy sound it made as he twisted and wiggled it.

He panted, unseeing. He enjoyed this. He really did.

He liked to play with how it felt. This was a fun game, putting things inside. Fingers, dildos. One day he’d find more things, try out different shapes. Not everything would feel this good, or make his wings flutter this wildly.

He could smell himself, too. Raw, and bitter. The air in this room had to reek of his sex by now, and he was practically high on it. It was a wanton, feral scent, and if he could taste every particle, he would. It reminded him how much he wanted this.

Little tight-assed Cas, hung like a mustang, crawling over Dean’s lap to ride him.

Or dark-eyed, fat-cocked Cas, spreading Dean’s legs, holding him down and making him whine as he sheathed himself inside him.

Both worked. Dean liked both. He sucked his lips between his teeth, sat up on his haunches and started riding the dildo. Like a fucking _pony_. Cas could be his ride.

His wings let loose now they had the freedom to do so - they pounded the air with double punches, controlling the thump of Dean’s body as he fell onto his plastic cock, his hole swallowing it, all the way down to his fingers.

Wet, slippery lube coated his hand, and was rubbing dry on the toy, but he liked the rub, he felt more this way. It stuck at the muscles of his hole, sucking the sensitive rim in, out, in, out, the skin caught on the shiny outer of the solid pink shape.

“A-uggh, fuck...” He squeezed his eyes closed even tighter, focusing on how his cock bounced with the force of his movements, the top of it hitting his abdomen, then jolting low as his body slammed down, the toy pushed deep. “ _Cas_...”

His wings changed their pace, their direction - they swept upward, their pinions cresting the lights on the ceiling, smacking the frosted glass. They singed at the sudden heat, and Dean barked out a sound, but not of pain, just surprise - adrenaline was like a poison in him right now, sex and pleasure blocking out the world.

He flopped forward, one hand slapping flat to the image of Castiel in the magazine, lust-blown eyes peering into Dean’s fantasies as he peered back, gasping as he curled a hand around his thigh. The dildo slowly slid out of him as he knelt on all fours, but he grabbed it before it popped free, and with a strained moan, he shoved it back in, revelling in the resolute plumpness of it.

“Oh g-... fuck me...” he whispered, to nobody, but enjoying how the words shaped his mouth.

He stared at the still frame of twenty-year-old Castiel while he rocked back into the fake cock, tiny breathy noises bursting from his throat on every thrust.

Gentle, little fucks. Cas would be curled around him, pattering kisses to his shoulders, to his upper arms, to his neck and ears and hair.

One hand would be around Dean’s cock, too, but Dean couldn’t grab his cock unless he wanted to lose his kneeling position.

So, he used his wings. One wing, at first. He curved it awkwardly, shoved its messy feathers under his middle. He burst out a sigh as the electric buzz of them touched his cockhead, a strand of bird-feather slipping through his slit, the riveting texture of it making him spill a wet strand of pre-come down that single feather.

He began to flutter the wing, then slid the other to nestle beside it, the fluffy down cushioning his balls. Liquid stuck to the fluff, matting it, getting it hot - then it got sticky as it cooled. He turned his head down to watch, seeing the universe petting at his cock, dragging the wetness.

The moan he released was distraught in the best way. The dildo in him was _stuck_ there, the lube dry. He let go of it, clenching his ass, feeling a freakish joy as the hard plastic stayed put. 

Fists curled at his forehead as he put his head down to the bed. He murmured curse words, prayers, anything. Filth and lies, just because he felt like it.

Cas inside him. _Cas_ with wings, Cas touching him with his angel magic. Touching him with the universe.

Dean bit his lip, lifting his head just enough to rest his chin on his hands, eyes meeting with the magazine just before him.

“Cas,” he said. “O- _hhh_.” His could barely keep his eyes open, body surging with lightning from somewhere otherworldly. It wasn’t a regular good feeling. This was Cas, plus wings, plus magic.

This wasn’t pleasure, and it wasn’t sin. It was more than that, more than pure bliss.

When it finally got too much, and static coursed in his blood, thumping out dark heartbeats under his skin and making him cry out Cas’ name, the syllable garbled into a mess of blissful moans - he didn’t come regular white. He came _stars_ , and they spilled from him in a thick, oozing liquid, burning a miniature black hole into his bed covers.

He groaned low, shaking on weak thighs, feeling the last of his orgasm leave him like a ghost.

As soon as he could breathe again, he looked down between his legs, intending to move his wings. But what he saw there made him smile - sure, it was probably terrible, but one splash of come had spread down a feather, and it sparkled like fucking _unicorn_ jizz.

Bracing himself, Dean took hold of that one feather and pulled, flinching as he plucked it out of his wing. A tiny cosmos slid down its firm shaft, twinkling in the light. Dean flopped down on his front - then gasped as the toy still lodged inside him bumped his prostate, hitting it perfectly.

He moaned aloud, his free hand moving behind him to tug on it, but his whole body froze up as it held firm, unwilling to budge. It pressed on his gland, like a thumb on a button, and he did all he could do to keep from screaming - after all, Sam was in the next room.

Blinded by pleasure again, he collapsed onto the bed, the feather still grasped between two fingers. His wings lifted, pulling tense out to his sides, feathers spread straight as he flushed with heat. He wished it wasn’t too soon to come again, because the bursts he felt, the pushes and twinges of - fuck... _fuck..._

Dean convulsed, screeching like a maddened animal as he forced the toy out of him with his rear muscles, desperate to let the good torture end. There was such a thing as too much, and he’d found it.

He whimpered into the blanket, shivering like he was cold, even though his skin was burning like a flame all over, the remnants of human bliss endlessly exhausting.

He was spent and useless like a damp cloth, his limbs sore, his ass clenching on nothing, fingers twitching in unconscious spasms.

His wings seemed to give up, and they flumped down, relaxing at last.

Only one eye opened enough for him to look at the feather he held, spinning it back and forth, examining its barbs. The liquid on it sank into its texture, but remained wet, glistening. It still looked like stars, like Dean had consumed glitter and it found its way into his jizz. Angel craziness was pretty cool, sometimes.

With a wicked smirk, Dean lowered the feather until it rested on Castiel’s photo, magically dried with just a thought. He curled his toes together up by his pillow, feeling that spike of naughtiness that he still hoped Castiel would punish him for. Granted, Cas had left the note saying never to speak of this, but he could hardly ignore what had transpired if Dean was incredibly blunt about it, wordlessly.

Dean didn’t know what he was hoping to achieve in giving him a filthy feather, but he did it anyway. He slowly pulled the magazine cover closed, removing the post-it and tossing it to the floor.

He liked Cas, in a less-than-savoury way. In giving Dean this magazine to look at, Dean knew Cas was at least open to feeling the same. They could try it out, perhaps. So long as Castiel knew what Dean was chasing.

Dean slept soon after, still lying naked with his feet on his pillow, his limp wings trailing on the floor. He slept so deeply that he forewent any and all attempts at dreaming, but he woke up with an impressive boner.

He didn’t make any fuss at all as he carried his lube to the bunker’s shower room and sank his pinched fingers inside himself, holding tight to the shower railing and moaning like a godforsaken mother _fucker_ as his orgasm dribbled down his thighs.

He felt pretty damn smug as he joined the breakfast table with Sam and Castiel, sitting down with barely a wince at the twinge in his backside, not bothering to mention or even hint at the fact that he had gone commando under his bathrobe. Downtime got him lazy and relaxed, what could he say?

Castiel didn’t look at Dean even once. Not _once_.

Dean even flicked a tiny bit of bacon at him, but Castiel just peered at it as its heat steamed up the tabletop, before he returned to his own bacon. Dean sneered, slightly pissed that he was now down by a whole half-inch of glorious bacon-y goodness.

Castiel cleared their plates away without a word. Dean knew he was being given the silent treatment on purpose. Cas was doing what he always did: shoving Dean away and ignoring him to prevent Dean from prodding. Dean figured the point at which he’d put the magazine on his bed was the snuggling-up part, getting so close he could feel Dean’s heart.

Dean was waiting for that moment again. He could deal with the distance, but god, he liked the part where they got close. Close enough for him to put his hand in the dip of Castiel’s lower back, leaning his chin on his shoulder to tell him he didn’t have to do the dishes today, Dean would get them. Close enough that when Castiel turned his face, Dean could feel his breath on his lips.

“I’d rather do the dishes,” Castiel said.

Dean smirked, taking a chance and edging closer, eyes on Castiel’s beautiful lips. They were lined and rough now, not plump and wet like in the picture. Dean figured with enough attention, particularly with his tongue, he could get them just like the photo.

With his chin almost in the jut between Castiel’s shoulder and his neck, Dean whispered, “What are you avoiding?”

He knew full well Castiel didn’t want to talk about this. Dean liked to push. He wanted him to snap, get angry. Hit Dean, maybe - Dean didn’t know how Castiel would react. He’d found that sweet, tender spot in Castiel’s armour, and he’d tease it. Oh, he would tease it until the very end.

“Dean,” Castiel muttered as a warning, his soapy hands resting at the edge of the sink.

Dean pressed himself up close, making it obvious that he was naked under his robe. Castiel almost gasped. _Almost_. Dean saw his eyelashes flicker, his lips parting.

Dean felt cruel. But if Castiel didn’t want this, he’d be sure to tell Dean. He’d told him before quite clearly what he would and would not tolerate from Dean, and name-calling was one. Maybe that was why Dean toyed with the thought of whispering “ _Baby,_ ” in his ear.

But he didn’t. The reaction Dean was waiting for was either one that said _stop_ , or one that said _more_.

Castiel swallowed, his throat pulling up.

“I left you something,” Dean told him. “Between the pages. It’s on your bed.”

Castiel bit down on his lower lip, his breath catching. Dean burst with an inner heat, enjoying even such a tiny reaction.

There was so many things Dean wanted to say to the other man, and that wasn’t even including the things he could barely admit to himself.

_I imagined your cock in me last night. And this morning. I wanna feel your breath on the back of my neck, feel a kiss there, like this, like I’m giving you now._

“Dean...”

Dean closed his eyes and pressed his lips behind Castiel’s ear, a second kiss. His hands curled around Castiel’s middle, twisting in the cloth of his loose cotton shirt.

Maybe it was too soon for these kinds of affections. Dean had never kissed Castiel before. He’d not gotten a yes or a no, but while it lasted, he liked this.

Castiel turned around, eyes still on Dean’s lips.

“Dean...”

“I liked it. What you showed me.”

Castiel’s lips twitched in a very faint smile. _Bingo._

“Did you really,” Castiel said.

“Yeah.” Dean edged forward, hesitantly putting his forehead against Castiel’s, eyes on his pretty, pretty mouth. “Yeah, I really did.”

Castiel smiled again - a real, albeit brief smile. “Th... There’s more... where that came from.”

Dean’s heart clenched, and he knew Castiel felt the throb his cock gave where it pressed between Castiel’s denim-clad thighs. Castiel sucked down a breathy whimper; Dean’s whole body flushed with pleasure at seeing him swallow on nothing, his lips unsteady.

“Now,” Castiel said, suddenly business-like. He shoved Dean away, fingers against his bare collarbone where his bathrobe had slipped open. “Go and wipe down the table. I’m making lunch later.”

Dean smiled as he backed away, a hand lingering on Castiel’s hip. “What’re you making?”

Castiel tentatively met Dean’s eye, and they both smiled. Dean even caught Castiel’s glow of satisfaction at the moment he turned away, a tiny, tiny grin on his lips. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

Dean couldn’t resist swooping in for one quick whisper, directly into Castiel’s ear, “ _You always do._ ”

He was gone before Castiel turned around. Sometimes, angel mojo was good for some truly magical things, and vanishing was one of them.

Alas, had he stayed for a single more second, he would have seen Castiel’s unabashed smile, the bubbling joy that crept into his face and eyes and hands as he laughed out loud. Castiel was happy and hopeful for the first time in years, and despite how ridiculous the circumstances, he had a very sure feeling that he wouldn’t regret this any time soon.

**~ end ~**


End file.
